


Carry On My Wayward Son

by sequence_fairy



Series: The Devil's Backbone [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Feels, Gen, Off-screen Character Death, Witches and Demons and Ghouls Oh My
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: Keith’s daddy put a shotgun in his hands for the first time when Keith was nine years old.By this time, his mama was long gone. Keith remembers her only in dreams, her hand on his forehead, her voice a low murmur, the scent of her skin and the impression of a long cable of hair, in a colour that’s not quite black but not quite anything else either.It had been just Keith and his daddy for years. Sometimes some of his daddy’s friends, but never for longer than a couple of nights. Keith learned early on when they visit, he should pretend to stay asleep, should pretend he doesn’t hear what they’re talking about. He still has nightmares about their conversations either way.“Stay here,” Keith’s dad had said, ducking out into the night. Gunmetal glints in the light from the headlights of the truck in the driveway. “Watch the door. Don’t let anything in.”Sometimes, Keith rides with other hunters, but most of the time, he works alone.
Series: The Devil's Backbone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687081
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33





	Carry On My Wayward Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeonthebrunhild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeonthebrunhild/gifts).



> For Sunday, who asked for the set up to [Tell That Devil I'll Take You Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21956797) and then there were ten thousand words in my google drive. 
> 
> Thanks to [Boot](https://twitter.com/aroundab00t) for the beta, and to, like, all my discord servers for listening to me whine about this and especially to [Meph](https://mephsation.tumblr.com) for yelling at me to write a sentence every damn day until this thing was done.

_And I went to the crossroad, mama, I looked east and west_  
_I went to the crossroad, baby, I looked East and West_

_-=-_

Keith’s daddy put a shotgun in his hands for the first time when Keith was nine years old. 

By this time, his mama was long gone. Keith remembers her only in dreams, her hand on his forehead, her voice a low murmur, the scent of her skin and the impression of a long cable of hair, in a colour that’s not quite black but not quite anything else either. 

It had been just Keith and his daddy for years. Sometimes some of his daddy’s friends, but never for longer than a couple of nights. Keith learned early on when they visit, he should pretend to stay asleep, should pretend he doesn’t hear what they’re talking about. He still has nightmares about their conversations either way.

“Stay here,” Keith’s dad had said, ducking out into the night. Gunmetal glints in the light from the headlights of the truck in the driveway. “Watch the door. Don’t let anything in.” 

Keith can remember his father’s dark eyes, fierce even in the shadows, and the flash of his teeth. He remembers the way he’d stepped down off the porch, the sound of a truck door slamming, and then the waning light of the headlights as they reversed down the drive. The desert sounds had risen in the wake of the retreating engine noise.

It took three days for anyone to come looking. 

Keith was sitting on the floor behind the screen door, holding the shotgun in his lap. He’d barely moved except to sit down when his legs got too tired to hold him up any longer. He struggled to his feet to meet whoever was coming up the drive.

A severe looking woman was coming up the drive, dressed in drab colours and she gasped, clutching at her chest when Keith looked up at her through the screen door. 

Keith grows the rest of the way up in and out of foster care and group homes. Always one foot out the door in all places, determined never to rely on anyone or anything other than himself again. 

When Keith is sixteen, he stumbles into trouble in an old warehouse in the north end of the city he’s been holed up in since he walked away from his last group home. His case worker has stopped calling, not that she’d notice if he up and died, Keith thinks uncharitably. She’d tried hard, he’s sure, but it’s better not to have any expectations so that when he’s inevitably let down, it’s not the body blow it always used to be. He’s down to his last few bucks and looking for a place to hide out for the night before finding a way back south, to the warmth of the desert and his half-remembered family home. 

The warehouse is non-descript, with boarded up windows and a padlocked door. It’s the perfect place, Keith decides. He uses his knife to pry off the boards on a lower floor window, so he can pull himself up and over the sill. He lands, nearly silent, on the other side. It’s pitch dark inside, but Keith knows his eyes will adjust. He’s always had better than average night vision.

It’s silent as a tomb, and Keith turns in a slow circle. Above him the ceiling is far away, lost to the shadows. There’s a skitter of sound from somewhere behind him, but Keith dismisses it as a rat or some other unfortunate seeking some kind of shelter from the chill night.

All the warning he gets is a hissing noise coming out of the shadows and then they’re on him. Keith goes down screaming, knife slipping out of his bloody grip.

-=-

Keith wakes up all at once and heaves himself up to sitting before he’s fully opened his eyes. 

“Easy,” a voice says from his right and a hand presses gently against his shoulder. Keith swings his head around, blinking blearily. The face is familiar, but older. The eyes are dark, deep lines around them and the hair is greying at the temples. Keith’s throat closes around a lump of emotion. He swallows. 

“Pa?” he asks, strangled. 

His father nods. The hand on Keith’s shoulder slides around his back, gathering Keith in close. Keith’s face ends up pressed against the leather of his father’s coat, his father’s big hands covering the span of Keith’s back. Keith’s hands come up, gripping tightly to his father’s sides. Keith’s eyes burn even as he shuts them tight, unwilling to let anything show.

They hold on to each other for a long time.

When Keith’s dad pulls back finally, Keith lifts his hand to his eyes to wipe away the moisture gathering there. When he finally blinks his eyes clear, Keith looks back up at his dad. 

“What happened?” Keith asks. He means what happened tonight. He means what happened seven years ago, he means what happened fourteen years ago when his mom left. 

“Shifter nest,” his dad says, answering only one of the questions hanging in the air between them. He shifts back on the rickety chair beside Keith’s bed. It creaks under his father’s weight. Keith looks around the room for the first time. 

A layer of dust covers everything except the bed, his dad’s journal and glasses on the nightstand and the shuffling pattern of footprints on the floorboards. 

“Where are we?” 

“Somewhere safe.” Keith’s dad hands Keith a bottle of water. Keith sets it in between his crossed legs. His dad pats Keith’s knee. “You were lucky, kiddo,” he says. 

Keith looks down at himself. Aside from the bandage around one hand, he feels remarkably well. His father follows Keith’s gaze. 

“You always healed fast,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Keith’s bandaged hand. “Your mother was like that, too.” 

Keith draws his hand in, curling it against his chest. He flexes his fingers. It doesn’t seem badly damaged. 

“You’ve got a sliced palm,” his dad says. He reaches up to push up his ball cap and scratch at his hairline before tugging the bill back down. “Grip on your knife must’ve slipped.” 

Keith opens the bottle of water with his opposite hand. It’s awkward, but Keith manages without help. His dad looks like he wants to offer to help, but Keith stubbornly refuses. The water is cool, but not cold. 

There’s a commotion outside the room. 

Keith reaches for his knife, forgetting that he doesn’t have it. His dad stands. The movement is slow, and looks pained. Keith looks up at him, reassessing. 

A knock on the door makes Keith’s head turn. Keith’s dad cracks the door, one hand curled around the edge, gripped tight. His dad’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. He, and whoever is outside, speak in voices low enough that Keith can’t quite make out the conversation over the hum of the air conditioning unit in the window. 

Keith looks down at his hands curled in his lap. 

-=- 

Keith spends the next few years with his dad. 

He gets mean with his fists, meaner with his knife, and learns exactly how to take apart all the things that go bump in the night. 

The night he turns eighteen, his dad takes him down to a friend in Florida, and Keith gets his first tattoo. 

It hurts like the blazes. Keith feels like his bones are being torn out through the space on his chest where the ink is being hammered in. Every single pulse of the needle feels magnified tenfold and then some. Keith grits his teeth, closes his eyes and clenches both fists. 

When it’s done, Keith’s skin is raw and inflamed. The tattoo artist and his father share a look that Keith can’t decipher, but neither of them explain. 

Later that week, behind a bar in the Mississippi Delta, Keith meets his first crossroads guardian. 

The tattoo burns as the demon approaches. He’s lanky, taller than Keith, taller than his dad, with brown hair that falls into his face. He’s wearing a battered canvas jacket over a red and black checked plaid shirt. His jeans are cuffed at the ankles, so they don’t interfere with the completely spotless pair of white kicks he’s wearing. He looks like he might be just as at home in an upscale craft brewpub as he might be on a porch with a PBR.

“You boys want a deal?” The demon asks, one side of his mouth curving up in a shark’s grin. 

“Naw,” Keith’s dad says. “Information.” 

“I don’t kiss and tell,” the demon says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocking back on his heels. 

Keith grips his knife tight.

“You might for this,” Keith’s dad says. 

The demon’s pitch black eyes narrow. “What are you offering?” 

“Information,” Keith’s dad answers. 

“Can’t just go around baring all my secrets for just any kind of information, now can I? People might get ideas.” The demon reaches up to shove his hair back off his forehead. His eyes widen briefly when they land on Keith. Keith doesn’t hold eye contact, dropping his gaze to look down at the dusty ground at his feet. 

“My son,” Keith’s dad says, and Keith feels the demon’s gaze slide off him. “I’ve heard that you’re looking for information about a friend of yours. I know someone who can help you with that.” 

The demon seems to consider their offer. He sucks air in through his teeth. “What friend am I supposed to be looking for?”

Keith’s dad huffs a sound that’s not quite a laugh, but not quite not. “If you’re not looking for anyone, I’ll just keep this little tidbit to myself, then.” He turns to Keith, and places one hand on Keith’s shoulder. His father’s hand is warm through Keith’s shirt. “Guess we’ll be going. Have a nice night.” 

The demon doesn’t say anything else for such a long time that Keith and his dad are nearly all the way to the edge of the pool of light from the lone street light hovering at the front of the property. 

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to trade,” the demon says, right behind them. 

Keith’s dad stops and turns. Keith stands next to him, thumb pressed against the edge of his blade. 

“You first,” the demon says. 

Keith’s dad nods. “I’ve got a buddy up in Sioux Falls, he’s got a friend who can read Enochian. Think you might find what you’re looking for up there.” 

“Sioux Falls?” 

“Yeah. Oh, word of warning,” Keith’s dad says, off hand, “you’ll want to make sure the boys with the muscle car aren’t home when you go calling.” 

“Oh,” the demon says, and he grins. His smile is full of teeth. It makes something inside Keith want to crawl away and hide. “I know the Winchester boys. They’re so much fun.” The demon rubs his hands together briskly, as if he’s caught a chill, except it’s too full of glee to be a reaction to the temperature outside.

“And you?” Keith’s dad prompts. 

The demon closes his eyes, face going slack and body going lax though it remains upright. The vessel, empty for the moment, looks like a puppet propped up to stand. It makes Keith uneasy. He chances a glance at his dad, but his father is quiet, studying the vessel. Keith re-grips his hand around his knife. 

When the demon returns, the vessel comes alive all at once in a flurry of twitching motions. The demon shakes himself and then blinks. For a moment, the eyes are human brown, blank and unseeing, and then the liquid black fills in. “My source was less than forthcoming,” he starts. Keith’s dad makes a noise of displeasure. The demon holds up one long-fingered hand. “But he did say that she could be found.” 

“What were the exact words?” Keith’s dad asks, reaching into the pocket of his coat for the battered leather-bound notebook he’s carried everywhere for as long as Keith can remember. 

“She can be found,” the demon repeats, then, “in the right place. She’ll be in the right place.” 

“The right place?” Keith’s dad confirms. The demon nods. “Anything else?” 

“No,” he says, and he seems almost disappointed. Keith can hardly believe a demon would be disappointed that it could not provide more information. Keith’s dad writes a note in the journal and then closes it back up and stuffs it back into his pocket. 

“Thanks.” 

“No problem,” the demon replies. He gives them both a lazy salute and between one blink and the next, he’s gone. On the ground, in the space where he was, there’s a small card. Keith bends down to pick it up. As soon as his fingers touch the paper, the tattoo on his chest starts to burn. He hisses, pressing one hand to the tattoo and handing the card to his dad. 

“You alright?” 

“Oh yeah,” Keith says, because the pain has gone as quick as it came. 

“He left us a way to get in touch with him again.”

The card reads, simply:  _ ‘Til next time, S _ .

-=- 

When Keith is twenty, he meets the demon again. This time, it’s with his father’s blood on his hands and his own blood dripped onto the hex bag buried at the centre of the crossroad. 

Keith’s on his knees. 

The demon appears with a rush of wind and the stink of sulphur. He looks the same as he did two years earlier, at a different crossroads, standing just outside of the glow of a different streetlight. 

“You!” The demon says, pointing. Keith blinks at him, before dropping his gaze back down to the bloodied hands in his lap. The demon’s footsteps seem to echo over the empty stretch of road. Gravel crunches under his shoes. Keith stares at his own hands. The bloodied whorls of his fingerprints are vivid against his skin. 

The demon stops just shy of three feet from Keith. 

“Help,” Keith croaks. It’s the first word he’s spoken in days. 

The demon squats so he can get down to Keith’s level. It’s a feat, given how tall his vessel is. “What happened?” he asks. 

“Dad,” Keith says around the lump in his throat, voice thick. 

The demon sighs. Keith looks up at him. Even with the pitch black eyes, there’s some kind of sympathy written on the demon’s features. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and then the demon is pushing himself to his feet and stepping closer to the circle of salt where Keith is kneeling.

He waits. 

Keith looks up at him. The demon’s hair flops into his face, but Keith doesn’t sense any open hostility. 

“Don’t you want a deal?” Keith asks, when he can finally unstick the words from behind his teeth. 

The demon shakes his head. “Naw,” he says, “I’d rather not deal with traumatized kids.” 

“‘M not a kid,” Keith mutters, gaze sliding down once more into his own lap. His father’s blood; all over Keith’s hands. There’d been so much. Too much. There’d been nothing Keith could do. 

“Sure,” the demon says, agreeably. He waits a beat. “I’m sorry about your dad.” 

Keith’s head snaps up. 

The demon shrugs under Keith’s gaze. “He always dealt fairly with me. I’ve got no reason to wish him ill.” 

For a long moment, they wait there in silence. Around them, the night sounds rise. Out on the marsh, a whippoorwill calls. A breeze ruffles the end of Keith’s hair. 

“Look,” the demon says, “I’m not gonna make a deal with you, but you look like you could use a meal and maybe a shower. You got a car? I can take you somewhere safe.” 

Somewhere safe, Keith thinks. Somewhere safe. Safe like where he and his dad were holed up when the witch eviscerated him in front of Keith’s eyes? Safe like the house they’d lived in when Keith was a kid? Where he’d lost his dad the first time? 

Every time Keith breathes it hurts. The witch had thrown him across the room in a blast of power and Keith had hit the opposite wall, hard. He’d landed in a heap, vision greying at the edges. 

It was sheer luck that he’d manage to cast the curse that had banished her back to wherever the fuck she’d come from.

“How do I know you won’t slide a knife between my ribs the minute my back is turned?” Keith asks. He needs help but asking for it from a demon wasn’t ever in the plan. 

The demon lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Guess you’ll just have to have a little faith,” he says. His teeth glint in the scant light. 

Keith pushes himself to his feet. He won’t die on his knees. Not tonight. He lifts one foot and breaks the salt line. 

-=-

Sometimes, Keith rides with other hunters, but most of the time, he works alone. 

He’s been back and forth across the entire country at least once for every year he’s been alive. At twenty-four, Keith thinks he’ll probably keep going until he can’t anymore. He no longer knows how to stay in one place. The idea of setting down roots makes him skittish and wary. 

He’s in Salina, Kansas doing what’s been billed as a routine ghost bust at a house in town. He’s killing time, waiting for a contact to come back with information on a translation of a page Keith had found tucked away in the back of his father’s journal. 

His father hadn’t left Keith much in the way of material possessions after he’d died. His will, written on the back of a photocopied police report, had simply said that everything that was his father’s was now Keith’s. It had been signed in his father’s confident hand, dated a week to the day after the night he’d disappeared on a hunt when Keith was nine.

Beside him on the passenger seat rests his father’s journal, his father’s twelve-gauge loaded with rock salt and birdshot and the remains of a shortstack from the diner on the other side of town. Keith’s laptop sits closed on top of the dash, and in the passenger seat footwell, Keith can see the glint of the handle of his knife, resting in its sheath. The stone in the crossbar winks at him as Keith shifts in his seat. A dog barks and Keith turns to look behind him. 

The street is quiet. Humidity hangs in the air, making the light from the streetlights turn to soft mist.

Across the road is the house in question. It’s not old, mid-century at most Keith thinks, but what does he know about architecture? The clock on the dash reads 12:45am and the radio’s playing something old and bluesy. 

Keith lifts a styrofoam cup to his mouth. The coffee at the diner is one step up from sludge, but it’s effective at keeping him alert and hotter than sin besides. 

Keith sips and watches, sips and watches. He also uses up all his lives in four different match three games on his phone.

When the dashboard clock reads 2:58am, the hair on the back of Keith’s neck rises. Keith sits up from his slouch, and twists one way and then the other, feeling his spine crack as he does. 

A light goes on in an upstairs bedroom and Keith gets out of the car. He reaches back in for the shotgun and his knife, clipping the sheath onto his belt, and stuffs his phone into one pocket. He re-settles his leather jacket over his shoulders and reaches up to pull the tail of his braid out from under the collar.

Keith approaches the house, careful to stay in the shadows. The screaming starts as soon as he hits the porch stairs. Keith thunders up the rest of them, and barrels in through the door. It gives under the shove of his shoulder with a splintering groan.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, the air is so cold it burns. Keith shivers, breathing out in a fog. Upstairs, Keith can hear the muffled sounds of someone begging. He racks the shotgun, and creeps up the stairs. 

On the landing at the top, Keith pauses. The only lit room is at the far end of the hallway, but there’s four doors between here and there, all closed. Keith closes his eyes. He breathes in and out, a count of seven for each. If not here, then where else? He reaches out, and puts a hand on the wall. A foreign but familiar sensation travels up through his fingers, ripping up his nerves like electricity. Keith hisses, but holds steady.

There’s a presence, vicious and hungry, in the far room, and two civilians. Keith lifts his hand off the wall, absorbing the static shock of the release without flinching. 

Keith steps carefully down the hallway, eyes scanning. He hugs the wall on the same side as the knob, fetching up against the wall beside the door, listening, holding his breath. From the other side, there’s a low sound, almost ultrasonic. It makes Keith’s insides quiver. Above that, he can hear crying and the low moan of someone in pain. 

Keith counts himself off, and on three, he flings the door open and bursts in. 

Several things happen at once. 

The lights in the bedroom go out in a blinding flash, bulbs shattering. The windows explode inward, showering everyone with glass. Keith throws up an arm to shield his eyes. The presence howls, and wind rushes in, sending the linens on the bed flying and knocking the dead lamps off the nightstands. 

Keith fires into the seething mass against the far wall. 

It shrieks and resolves itself into something a little less amorphous. Keith steps further into the room, putting himself between it and the occupants, huddled in the corner. Keith spares them a glance. The woman is holding her hands over her husband’s, pressing their palms against his thigh. Blood seeps from between their fingers. Her face is white and tear-streaked, but she stares back at Keith with grim determination in the clench of her jaw.

Keith turns to look back at the ghost, which he is sure now is not simply a spirit but something a little closer to a poltergeist. There are no children in this house, so it must be a revenant of something from another life. Keith fires again. The kick of the shotgun rocks against his shoulder, but Keith rolls with it. 

The mass seethes and roils. “Little hunter, have you come to play with us?” It asks, voice sibilant. Keith shakes his head. He cracks the shotgun and pulls a pair of shells out of his coat pocket. 

“Why’re you still here?” he asks, loading the shells, one at a time. “Why haven’t you moved on, hey?” Keith lifts the gun and fires again. 

The presence shrieks. The sound sets Keith’s teeth on edge. Glass shatters downstairs. Keith ignores it. The wind in the room is dying by the second, glass rattles on the floor but no longer flies through the air like shrapnel. 

“Your time is up,” Keith says. The spirit looks much closer to a ghost now, Keith can make out the form of a woman. Her hair floats behind her in a wild tangle. She stays pressed against the wall, rage fading as her power wanes, battered away from her by the onslaught of salt. “Leave this place,” Keith says, and she moans. Goosebumps race down the back of Keith’s arms at the sound.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a cloth bag. In it is graveyard dirt, bone fragments he dug up himself and the seed of a spell. Keith rests the shotgun across his arms while he lights a match, setting it against the bag. It goes up like ticker tape, and the ghost goes up with it. She dies with a scream that echoes around the room. 

Across town, the other half of the spell ignites her grave in a rush of flames. 

When she’s gone, Keith turns to face the homeowners. 

“My husband,” the woman says, stuttering. Keith nods, and steps forward, dropping to his knees. 

“Here,” he says, “let me.” He reaches down and gently moves her hands away. She lets him, slumping back. “My phone’s in my pocket, here,” Keith says, nodding to his jacket pocket. “Call 911 and get an ambulance here.” 

She nods, but takes her another prompt from Keith before she moves. She fumbles his phone out and dials with bloody fingers. Keith ignores her and keeps pressure on the wound. A bloody piece of glass rests on the floor next to his leg. It’s not a nicked artery or he’d have bled out by now. 

“They’re coming,” she says, trying to hand Keith back his phone. 

“Get me a towel,” Keith says, “and a belt. Quick.” 

While they wait for the ambulance, Keith fashions a quick tourniquet, and wipes blood off his hands with the flower-print towel the woman offers him. 

“Thank you,” she says, when he stands. Keith grabs his phone from where she’d set it, facedown on the floor beside her.

He’s driving away just as the flashing lights spin up in his rearview mirror.

-=-

Keith spends the rest of that summer rooting a particularly deeply entrenched vampire clan out of a bayou south of Morgan City in Louisiana. He comes out of it with a desperate hatred of mosquitos and can’t seem to get the smell of the swamp out of his hair. 

After that, he heads north. There’s an antiquities dealer in Chicago that Keith thinks might have a lead on something in his father’s journal. 

He arrives in Chicago at the edge of fall, and the windy city welcomes him with a blast of arctic air and the threat of early snow. Keith huddles in his leather jacket, stamping his feet on the sidewalk while he waits for the antique shop to open. He spends an hour at the counter, and gets nothing for his trouble but a raised eyebrow and a suggestion that he seek out Allura Alforsdottir. 

Keith leaves Chicago almost as soon as he arrives in it, heading north and east. The weather follows at his heels and by the time Keith gets a room at a roadside motel outside of Syracuse, it’s absolutely pouring and the wind is howling down from the north. 

The motel room is warm, and has wifi along with enough cable that Keith can find an old monster flick to put on for background noise. What it doesn’t have is a shower big enough to turn around in, but Keith makes do, warming himself up with all the hot water he can squeeze out of the tank. 

After his shower, he re-braids his hair, before letting it hang down his back in a thick cable. 

He remembers very little about his mother, but he remembers her hands, quick and careful, braiding his hair every night. His father had done it for him after his mother had gone. 

The first foster family had made him cut it off, and Keith remembers the sound of the scissors sawing across his hair at the base of his skull. At the time, he’d wept, horrified at the thought of losing this connection to his family, after losing everything else. He’d been nine years old. 

When he’d finally taken off on his own, Keith had let his hair grow wild. There was no one to tell him not to and Keith had revelled in the freedom of it.

Early the next morning, Keith is back on the road again, heading towards Massachusetts, and after that, Maine. 

He arrives in the town down the coast from Bar Harbour in the early evening. The light is fading, and it washes the small port village out, seeming to bleach the colours from the houses perched along the shoreline and reflecting in the plate glass windows of the hardware store on the main drag. 

He pulls into the hotel on the corner of where the highway meets the county road in the centre of town. It’s an old building, brick painted white with the name painted in blue letters under the second story windows. Keith looks up, as he walks to the front door, his bag hitched over one shoulder. The Princess Hotel seems nice enough, he thinks, probably nicer than anywhere else he’s stayed recently. 

The guy at the desk looks terminally bored when Keith steps through the door. The name plate sitting on the top of the desk says his name’s Lance.

“Reservation?” Lance asks, not looking up from his phone screen. 

“No,” Keith says. He leans against the counter, and lets his bag drop to the floor with a thump. “Lookin’ to stay for awhile,” Keith says, fishing out his wallet. He drops a black credit card on the hardwood. Lance’s eyes catch the movement and he looks up. Keith watches his eyes widen as they take in the incongruence of the card and it’s holder. 

Lance snatches up the card and looks carefully at the name on the card and then up at Keith. “Single or a double?” he asks, tapping away at the keyboard in front of him. 

“Single if you’ve got one,” Keith says, “and can you tell me where to get a beer around here?” 

Lance runs the card and almost looks surprised when it goes through. He manages to school his features quickly enough that Keith doesn’t feel the need to comment. “You’re all set,” Lance says, handing Keith back his card. “Sign here.” Lance passes Keith a pen and points at the leger on the desk next to Keith’s elbow.

Keith eyes the leger and the pen. 

Lance waits. 

Instead of reaching for the pen, Keith opens his wallet again. He pulls out a few bills and slides them to Lance along with the receipt. “Keep that,” he says. Lance palms the money and folds the receipt in half. They look at each other for a long moment before Lance hands Keith his keycard. 

“You’re on the second floor, ‘round the back,” Lance says, and points to the door marked ‘Stairs’ leading out of the lobby. 

“Thanks,” Keith says, and steps away from the desk. He picks up his bag and heads for the stairs. 

Before he can get too far, Lance’s voice stops him in his tracks. 

“The bar down by the wharf’s your best bet for a drink,” he says. Keith half-turns to face him. Lance is standing behind the counter. “Hunk’s a good guy. The bar’s his place.” 

Left unsaid is that Keith should be careful about defrauding the bar on top of defrauding the hotel. Keith nods and continues on towards the stairs. He’ll come back down for the rest of his gear later. 

His room, when he gets to it, is dark and cold. Keith fumbles for the lightswitch beside the door. 

The lights come up with a buzz and then settle into a background hum. Keith dumps his bag and chances a look at himself in the bathroom mirror on his way back out the door. His braid is coming undone but Keith can’t be arsed to redo it, so he hooks the strays back over his ears and heads back out, letting the door slam shut behind him. 

-=-

Keith steps through the door of the bar down at the waterfront. It was easy to find as it is the only bar on the wharf, even though there’s no name on the door and no sign hung outside. 

Inside it’s dark, but not overly so. The bar is well-stocked, if the lines of bottles behind it are any indication. Keith fetches up on a stool near the far end, back to the wall, so he can see the door and all seven of the people who are also joining him in drinking in solitude on this Tuesday night in September. 

The man behind the bar is wide, but in that way that Keith knows means he could easily lift anyone inside, maybe several of them at once, and toss them out while not breaking a sweat. His hair is held back from his face by a red band, the tails of which fall down his back and his upper arms are ringed with black ink: whorls and geometric patterns. 

Keith catches his eyes, and the bartender nods, but doesn’t immediately come down to the end where Keith is sitting. It takes long enough for him to get down to the end of the bar that Keith is seriously considering going back to the hotel to tell Lance that this was a really shitty recommendation. 

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. His voice is deep, but his eyes are friendly if wary.

“Whiskey,” Keith says, “mid-range. On ice.” 

The bartender nods and moves away. Keith rests one elbow on the bar and props his head up on his palm. He surveys the bar. It’s a quiet night, and the place smells faintly of old cigarette smoke and brine.

“You’re new,” the bartender says, when he hands Keith his drink. 

“Ah, yeah,” Keith hedges. “Just in town for a few days. Lance – up at the hotel? He suggested I come down here for a drink.” 

There’s a visible thawing at the mention of Lance’s name. “What’s brought you all the way out here?” 

Keith lifts his glass, swirls the contents and then takes a sip before answering. “Business,” he says, then, “well, mostly. I’m looking for someone, maybe you know her?” 

The bartender lifts one eyebrow but before he can answer Keith, he’s called down to the other end of the bar. He doesn’t get a chance to come back until Keith’s nearly through nursing his drink. He’s pulled out his phone, and is scrolling through the local business listings, trying to find one he thinks might have a lead on Allura. 

“Had a friend in Chicago tell me I could find Allura Alforsdottir out here,” Keith says. It’s a risk to lay your cards so openly on the table, but Keith’s always been a bit of a risk-taker. 

The bartender gives no outward sign of anything at the mention of the name, but it’s the kind of studied casualness that Keith knows means he knows more than he’s letting on. 

“I’m Keith,” Keith says, offering the bartender his hand. “I’m looking for her help with something. My friend says she might be able to find someone for me.” 

“Your friend seems to know a lot about her even though he doesn’t seem to know where to find her,” the bartender says, but he takes Keith’s hand anyway. “Hunk,” he says, shaking Keith’s hand firmly. Hunk’s hand dwarfs Keith’s, and there’s callouses on the palm Keith knows comes from more than just slinging bottles and slicing limes.

Keith lets a smile break over his face. “Can’t be too careful in my business,” Keith says. 

“What business is that?” Hunk asks, taking his hand back. 

“Oh,” Keith says, “the family kind.” 

Hunk grins. “You’re in the right place, my friend,” he says, and tops up Keith’s glass. 

-=-

Keith wanders back to the hotel well after last call. The horizon is just beginning to brighten, and with it, Keith’s hopes that Allura might help him are rising. 

Hunk had been extremely helpful: Allura lives in a rambling old Victorian place down on the point, and he has the number for her phone in his pocket. 

Keith lets himself back into his room and hooks the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the knob. 

The bed awaits. 

-=-

Keith gets a hold of Allura late in the next day. She’s wary at first, untrusting of strangers sent to her from the midwest, which Keith doesn’t blame her for in the least. She eventually, in her smoke and whiskey voice, agrees to meet him the following night. 

Keith is left with another day to bum around town, not that there’s much to do. 

He goes back down to the bar in the afternoon and finds it empty everyone but himself and Hunk. 

“How’d you get into this business?” Keith asks, after Hunk’s joined him at a booth with a view of the door. 

“Runs in the family,” Hunk says. 

Keith nods. It’s almost always like that. “You’re not from around here though,” he observes. 

Hunk laughs, quick and sharp. “No, I’m not. My family’s mostly still on the west coast.” 

“How’d you get all the way out to Maine then?” 

“Chased a lead, found something else instead.” Hunk looks around the bar fondly. He runs a hand across the table’s scarred surface, looking down before looking back up to meet Keith’s gaze. “Couple of folks have wondered if I gave up something when I decided to stay, but I think I might win out in the end.” 

Keith nods. He can’t see himself putting down roots, not anytime soon at least, but some people just aren’t cut out for the traveling life. They drink in silence. 

“What are you hoping Allura will help you find?” Hunk’s question breaks the quiet. 

Keith looks down at his glass. “When I was a kid, my mom disappeared,” he says. “Then, for a while, I thought my dad was dead, too. Now, though—” Keith pauses to drink. The loss of his dad, while no longer a fresh wound, still smarts. “Well. He’s really dead now. But I don’t know about my mom, and I want to know for sure. I think my dad was looking for her.” 

Hunk hums, nodding. “What makes you think she’s still alive?” 

Keith shifts in his seat, resettling back into a deeper slouch against the back of the banquette. “A demon told us she could be found in the right place.” 

Hunk’s eyes widen. 

Keith flaps a hand. “Naw, he’s not bad, really. Helped me out of a bad spot after I lost my dad. For free, too.” Keith leans forward again, cupping his glass with both hands. “He told us, after my dad traded information about someone the demon was looking for, that she could be found in the right place.

“I keep thinking about that, over and over, like it’s some kind of riddle, right? In the right place. What does that mean? Dad’s journal hasn’t ever been any help, and none of the other leads he was following up on panned out. This is all I have to go on.” Keith looks down at his hands. He splays them out on the tabletop. “I just want to know if she’s alive. And if she is, where she’s at. I haven’t seen her since I was like, barely old enough to remember.” 

“What if the right place isn’t a riddle at all?” Hunk asks, careful. 

“I’ve been through the missing persons records everywhere I can get at them,” Keith says, “Dad never filed one. So she’s not ‘missing’, just gone.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found?” 

Keith hisses. “Yeah, I thought about that, too.” 

“And?” Hunk prompts. “She could have just, I dunno, decided she didn’t want a life that included a kid and a husband, or whatever. What about her relatives?” 

“I don’t think she would’ve just left. If it had been like that, I don’t think dad would have kept looking for her all those years. I think she  _ had _ to leave. Something about her, something about  _ me _ , meant she had to go.” 

“Something about you?” 

Keith bites his lower lip. “Well, I mean, I don’t know. I’d like to find out.” 

“What time did Allura say to come by tonight?” 

“After dark,” Keith says, and looks up at the windows out front. The sun is setting, the sky turning to fiery red and gold.

“Get on the road then,” Hunk says, “it’ll be pitch by the time you get out to her place.” 

Before he stands, Keith reaches into his pocket and hands Hunk his phone. “Here,” he says, “put your number in there. I’ll text you back, then you’ll have mine. I’m not often up on this side of the country, but if you’re ever in need, I’ll see what I can do.” 

Hunk takes Keith’s phone and programs his name and information into the contacts app. 

“Thanks,” Keith says. 

“Let me know when you get back,” Hunk replies once they’re both standing again. Hunk reaches out his hand and Keith takes it, clasping back in a firm and friendly grip. 

By the time Keith makes it back up the hotel to pick up his car, the sun has well and truly set. Dusk is shadowing the small town as he drives out towards the point, following the hasty map Hunk sketched out for him on a piece of scrap paper at the bar. 

It’s not a long drive, but the roads are unlit and unfamiliar, so Keith takes it easy. 

Eventually, the shoreline creeps in on one side. The forest on the other side of the road thickens briefly before breaking into a long rolling field. There’s just enough light left to see the house on the hill. It stands against the darkening sky, silhouetted in the dying daylight and Keith nearly misses the turn off for the drive. 

His headlights illuminate the way up to the house, and as he crests the final hill, willows bending over the drive, he catches a glimpse of her on the porch. She’s waiting for him. 

Keith parks the car, and gets out, shutting the door behind him carefully. The air feels unnaturally still. The sound of the ocean is muffled like a heavy mitt is being held over Keith’s ears. His heart pounds in his chest. He steps towards the porch. 

Long white-blond hair lifts and lowers in what little seabreeze there is. Her eyes are blue, but not quite. She’s tall, nearly taller than him, and statuesque with it. There’s almost a glide to the way she moves across the lawn to meet him. 

“Keith,” she says, when she’s close enough to touch him. She reaches out with one hand. Keith sucks in a breath when her fingers touch his jaw. “Welcome.”

The noise of the waves crashing on the rocks at the shore rushes back in and Keith’s head spins. 

“Won’t you come inside?” Allura asks, stepping back from him and turning to go back up the path. Keith stands there for a long moment before he follows her. 

The hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise. He pushes his senses out with them, closing his eyes. They brush against a well of power so deep it would swallow him. Keith shies back, opening his eyes to find Allura watching him, one hand on the railing of the porch stairs. 

“Come inside, and we can talk about your mother,” Allura says. 

Keith follows Allura into her house and as the door shuts behind him, there’s a shiver of sensation through the air. Allura frowns briefly, before there’s another shiver and Keith feels something tense at the top of his spine unwind. 

Allura leads him through the house, to a room overlooking the ocean. Outside the windows, the water is dark with the night. 

Keith settles on a chair facing Allura, who has taken up the sofa. She picks up a deck of cards and begins to shuffle them. 

“You’re here to ask me about your mother,” Allura says, continuing to shuffle the deck. Bangles on her wrists clink together as she moves. The noise is soothing, almost hypnotic. Keith watches her hands. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, after a moment. “She left when I was little.” 

“You’re not the first to have come looking for her,” Allura says, and lays out a series of cards on the table. The pattern resembles a cross, but the cards aren’t like any divination deck Keith’s ever seen before. 

“Not the first?” 

“No,” Allura says, and she turns over another card, laying it across a pair in the centre of the cross. “Not the first. Your father came years ago,” she says. “You look so much like your mother, Keith. It’s no wonder the bloodline threw true with you.” 

“The bloodline?” Keith asks. 

Allura’s face softens, sympathy in her eyes. “Your mother wasn’t only human,” she says, her voice gentle. 

Keith stiffens in his seat, thrown. “No,” he says, frowning. “No. My father—I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t.” 

Allura smiles softly. “Keith,” she says. She turns over a series of cards, looking down at them briefly and then back up at Keith. 

“What—what was she?” 

“She loved you,” Allura says. “So fiercely. You have to understand that she left to keep you safe.” 

Keith curls his fingers into the meat of his thighs. “So she’s dead then,” he says, forcing the words out. 

“Not dead,” Allura says, and turns over the last facedown card on the table in front of her. She gasps. She looks up at Keith, eyes wide. 

“What is it?” Keith asks. 

“Haggar,” Allura says. There’s a viciousness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. She stands up and begins to pace, hands held tightly together in front of her. The hem of her dress sweeps the floor, black lace trailing behind her as she does a lap of the room. 

“Who is Haggar?” Keith asks. He wants to ask about his mother, but Allura looks almost frightened as she stands at the window, staring out at the black night. 

“A witch,” Allura says, “corrupted by the power she sought to wield.” She turns from the window to face Keith, now also on his feet. “You banished her,” she says, and steps forward. “You, untrained and barely conscious, were able to send her away. Think about that, Keith. She murdered your father without touching him. Threw you across a room and broke your ribs, and yet, you were able to cast a curse that banished her far enough that I haven’t felt the gathering of her power in years.” 

“But—” 

Allura raises a hand. She looks at Keith. “The demon didn’t lie,” she says. Her eyes are fathomless, seeing somewhere else.

Keith swallows. His mother is alive. The feeling rolls through him like a tolling bell. “How do I find her?” 

Allura blinks, gaze focusing once more. “I’ll teach you,” she says. Keith nods. 

-=-

The snow is driving against his face and the wind howling as Keith steps out of his car on the side of a sideroad in Wyoming. It’s snowing so hard he can hardly see his hands in front of his face. He doesn’t need to see though, not really, not for what he’s looking for. 

Keith steps off the edge of the road and scuffs the layer of drifted snow off the gravel on the shoulder. Once he’s cleared a wide enough space, he crouches down, and draws a circle in the dirt. 

Allura’s voice floats along the back of his mind; smoke and embers. 

_ Draw the circle all in one breath, then bisect it, then again. Four cardinal corners, mark the elements in each.  _ Keith’s fingers are cold and his hand shakes, but he makes the shapes.  _ Blood now, to tie the circle to you, to make it breathe for you, to hold the spell _ . Keith reaches back and unsheathes his knife. He shoves up the sleeve of his coat, and draws the blade along the upper part of his inner forearm. Blood wells up, gleaming wetly in the light of his headlights. Keith turns his arm, letting the blood drip onto the circle. 

The blood sizzles when it touches the earth, and Keith feels the stretch of the magic. He’s closed the circle now, around Haggar’s compound. The hair on the back of his neck rises. The wind picks up in pitch and fervour and then dies; the snowflakes hang in the air briefly before continuing their lazy trek to the ground. 

Keith gets back in his car and takes the next turn south. He has twenty four hours to end the witch that killed his father and free his mother from her curse. 

When he crosses the stateline into Colorado, it’s almost dawn. He watches the sun rise over mountain peaks and feels the first twang like a fly has landed on his web. He follows the feeling, nursing gas station coffee, deep into the heart of the state, mountains rising on either side of the highway. 

It’s early still, and traffic is never as heavy this time of the year, so when he pulls over at the crest of a hill to take a leak and re-orient himself, he has the road to himself. The wrought iron gate catches his attention as soon as he gets out. It’s across the road. 

Keith’s moving towards it before he can think, gripping his knife. 

Allura comes again to his thoughts.  _ You’re not quite what I am, nor what she is. Your mother’s magic is different from mine or Haggar’s. Her’s is something wilder, something less tamed. She chose to carry you, and chose to stay until she could no longer.  _

Keith pushes the gate open. It protests with a high-pitched shriek. He steps onto the property. 

The drive winds up out of sight, the forest hemming it on both sides. The pines are thick, and verdant. Snow is piled in drifts at the base of the trees and blown clean from the centre of the drive. Keith picks his way up, knife in hand and eyes darting back and forth, watching for anything that might come out of the underbrush. 

He walks for what he thinks is almost an hour before the path starts to level off. The trees are still thick, but Keith can tell there’s a clearing coming. He steps out of the treeline just as the sun’s first rays break over the tops of the surrounding mountains, throwing shafts of light out across the snow. 

Ahead of him is a house. Not at all that dissimilar to Allura’s, for all that this is a mountain enclave instead of one by the sea. It’s in better shape than Allura’s, but looks much more foreboding because of it. Keith skirts along the treeline instead of approaching the house directly. There doesn’t appear to be anyone home, but Keith felt the twang against the spell. He knows she’s in there. 

Keith takes a moment to stand and breathe behind one of the outbuildings, before making the last break across the open ground to get to the front door. The porch steps are solid under his feet. He reaches for the door but before he can touch it, it bursts open. 

Keith jumps back, skidding across the wooden planks of the porch. 

“So,” Haggar says, as she steps out. “You’ve come at last.” 

“Where’s my mother, witch?” Keith grits out, between his teeth. 

Haggar advances. Keith holds his ground. The wind comes up in a screaming howl and the air turns to ice. The sunlight disappears in a rush of snow. She’s speaking, but it’s a stream of harsh syllables Keith can’t translate on the fly. Power glows in the palms of her hands, dark lightning snapping in the air around her. She rears back, lifting first one hand and then the other, before thrusting them towards him. 

Keith lifts the knife, holding it like it will somehow shield him from the blast. Suddenly, in the face of this concentrated power, he feels very out of his depth in a way that he hasn’t since the first night Allura started teaching him. Keith says a silent prayer, and closes his eyes, preparing for the black lightning to rip through him, wondering how he’ll manage to take Haggar down after. The blast hits the jewel at the top of the blade head-on and Keith feels the reverberations of the impact all the way up into his shoulders. There’s a sound like glass breaking and a snap that Keith feels deep in his gut, and then all he sees is white. 

When his vision finally clears, Haggar’s been rocked back, but she’s still standing. 

“You,” she spits, wiping blood off her mouth with one hand. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” 

“When?” Keith asks. “When did you have the chance?” 

“In your cradle,” Haggar says, and heaves another blast of power at him. Keith gets the knife up between them again, and this time, the contact is like thunder without sound, and Haggar’s magic crackles and snaps as it meets the boundary of the shield Keith’s knife is making. 

Haggar pushes forward, her white hair streaming out behind her like a banner. Her eyes glow electric violet. She throws her head back and screams, the sound lost to the wind. Keith holds fast. 

“You couldn’t do it then,” he taunts, “what makes you think you can do it now?” 

“Snivelling human child.” Haggar takes another step forward. Keith’s arms shake as he works to hold the knife steady. It pulses in his hand, in time with his own heartbeat. 

“She begged me not to,” Haggar says. “She cried. Wept for the human child she’d spawned, like I should care about your life.” 

Keith grits his teeth.

“She was weak,” Haggar growls, close enough now that Keith can see the lines on her face and the way her eyes have been swallowed by pitch black. “But you aren’t. You aren’t. You’re so much stronger than she was.” Haggar’s voice changes to an enticing purr. “We could do such wonderful things together, you and I,” she says. 

“No, thank you,” Keith retorts, and reaches inside himself for the well Allura has taught him to look for. “I’d never work with you!” 

Keith takes a step forward, and drives the boundary ahead of himself. He can feel the spell he laid earlier gathering in the centre of his chest, feel the cardinal points coming together in a core of molten gold simmering beneath his ribs. Heat bleeds through his lungs and down his arms. The knife pulses, and Haggar has to take a step back. Keith pushes forward again. 

“Tell me where my fucking mother is!” Keith demands, and feels the rush of gold overwhelm his fragile control. Fire races through his veins and Keith gasps. He can’t see. Power rips through him, and explodes out in a rush of icy blue light and a cacophony of noise. Keith grits his teeth and tries to hold on, but he can’t, it fills him and overflows. Keith screams, no longer able to be anything but a vessel for the light flowing through him. 

Distantly, he can hear the sound of the ocean, and then nothing.

-=-

Keith wakes up the first time to the sound of water running. He blinks and nothing resolves to clarity. He blinks again and a hand smooths across his brow. The palm is cool against his skin and Keith lets it soothe him back down into the dark. 

The second time he wakes up, it’s as dark as it was in his head. Keith struggles up to sitting, swimming his way to alertness through what feels like a bank of cotton wool stuffed into his brain. He reaches for his knife and doesn’t find it under his pillow. Fear rockets up his spine. Keith tries to get out of the bed. A noise across the room stops him in his tracks. 

“You don’t want to be doing that,” comes a sleep-gravelly voice from the couch Keith can just make out in the dark. “Channelling that kind of magic will really do a number on you.” 

Keith sinks back down onto the blankets. “Wait,” he says, “what?” 

The demon sits up on the couch so Keith can see his head over the back. He winks, exaggerated, and waves with three of his fingers. 

“What?” Keith asks again. 

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” the demon sing-songs. “Or well, I think so. She’s gone deeply to ground if she’s not dead.” He gets up off the couch and moves towards the sink to fill a glass of water. 

“Where are we?” Keith asks, when the demon hands him the glass. Keith drinks it down, in one long swallow before handing the glass back.

“Somewhere safe,” the demon says. 

“My mother–” 

“Not here,” the demon says, “but something’s got everyone on the other side up in arms. I’ve never had so many calls to come back home.” The demon sits down next to Keith on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. “You were way more than half-dead when I found you, what the hell were you thinking?” 

“Allura–”

The demon makes an uncharitable noise. Keith narrows his eyes. 

“She said–”

“I’m sure she did,” the demon says. He pushes a hand through his hair, and then scrubs it over his face. “Look, she’s a witch, and same as any other, out for her own gain. Haggar was her enemy, just as she was yours. That Allura helped you defeat her doesn’t mean she gave you the best tools to use in order to do that. Channelling that spell should have killed you. That it didn’t is probably a testament to whatever it is in your blood that makes it so you could even learn the magic in the first place.” 

Keith frowns. “I’d never have learned if Allura hadn’t been willing to teach me. If I’d found Haggar on my own eventually, she’d have killed me with the first blow.” 

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t owe a witch a favour, would you?” 

“I think she owes me, actually,” Keith says. “Did her dirty work, didn’t I?” 

The demon laughs, bright and sudden. “You’re okay, kid,” he says. “You can stay here ‘til you’re ready to go, I’ve got shit to do.” He stands, and in between one blink and the next, he’s gone.

Keith mulls over what the demon said. He doesn’t really think Allura sent him out to do her bidding. She hadn’t only taught him this spell to capture and defeat Haggar, she’d taught him other useful things for hunting. She’d fed and clothed him for a summer and then some, and paid his way for this. The demon certainly has his own agenda, but Keith knows what he knows, and Allura never asked, Keith came to her.

He looks to his left and finds his phone on the nightstand. He picks it up and wakes it up, swiping his thumb across the screen to unlock it. There are messages from other hunters, a flurry of question marks from Hunk, and one missed call from Allura. He calls her back first. 

_ Keith _ , she says, voice warm, when she answers the phone on the second ring.  _ I felt it when you found her _ .

“It’s done,” Keith says. He sighs into the phone, and rubs a hand through his hair. 

_ Come back _ , Allura says,  _ I’ve news about your mother. The cards have been showing me the way for days. You must come back. _

“I’m not sure where I am,” Keith replies, “I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get to you.” 

_ You’re in Kansas _ , Allura says,  _ I’ll see you in two days. _

“How—? Never mind. I’ll be on my way at dawn,” Keith says. “Can you get a message to Hunk?” 

_ He already knows to expect you _ , Allura says, and then,  _ I’m glad you’re okay, Keith. I knew you would defeat her where I could not. _

“Glad one of us did,” Keith says, and then hangs up with Allura. Keith stands, wobbly, but surer with every step, and walks the water glass back over to the sink. The clock over the stove says 3:04am. On the counter, the blade of his knife gleams dully in the moonlight seeping in through the slatted blinds. Keith leans forward and uses a hand to separate the slats so he can peer out. 

Fields stretch out towards the horizon, but sitting in front of the house is his car, black paint shining in the moonlight. Keith grins. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please come and chat with me about my fic on [tumblr](http://sequencefairy.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic).


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